


Through the dark

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, Feanorian OT8, Grief/Mourning, Group Sex, Incest, Multi, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Too many kinds of incest to list
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Noldor leave Tirion, and before the Oath, a personal initiative on Fingon's part alters things considerably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt I wrote this for is _"Sex cures everything" cliché, including Fëanor's madness_. I tried to keep it serious, and not have everybody become OOC either (though of course that depends a lot on character interpretation; I personally don't think Fëanor was 'mad' in any sense of the word).

“Father, we won't ever leave you,” Tyelcormo said, like Pityafinwë had before him, and Macalaurë, and all their brothers.

“It's a promise,” Curufinwë added, lying down on warm sheets, naked as his brother and father, on Fëanáro's free side.

Fëanáro, who had started awake from a nightmare-fraught nap not long before, stared wide-eyed at him, as if afraid that Curufinwë would disappear if he stopped looking for even a moment. “...but what if something happens to you too -”

Curufinwë felt his stomach churn at the distress in his father's voice, and quickly lifted his hand to cover his mouth. “We're here with you. We will protect each other.”

“We will fight, together,” Tyelcormo whispered against Fëanáro's nape.

Fëanáro turned towards him and seemed to be soothed by the fondness and reassurance in his eyes. He let himself be pulled into his arms, while Curufinwë placed light kisses – kisses which he desperately wished could let his devotion seep through his father's very skin – on his back. 

In public, he faced the crowds and all opposition boldly, and his presence could have diminished the Valar's, but when he retreated into his cold chambers – past the airy vaults and arches which had once let in light from the trees and now provided no protection against the darkness that only the brilliance from his lamps kept at bay – and laid down Finwë's crown that weighed on his head like a boulder, he collapsed, bowing to grief and fear.

It was better now than when his sons had found him again, after he had bolted from the Máhanaxar, running into the dark until he had nearly broken a leg in a fall. The first few weeks after they had returned to Formenos he had spent in a trance-like state, hardly eating, hardly speaking. What had saved him from a despondency which had threatened to swallow him whole (wouldn't it have been better, simpler, if he had just joined his parents?) had been his sons' touch. Their love, given in body as well as in spirit, prodigally and ceaselessly. 

So now they took turns, some making love to him until he wouldn't think of death and sorrow for some time, while the others dealt with the preparations for the departure. Their followers were working frantically to pack provisions and all the equipment that would be necessary on the long march ahead of them. 

On that bed they tried to re-enact a semblance of normalcy. 

Tyelcormo had Fëanáro lay on his side, to face Curufinwë again, and slipped a hand between his thighs to fondle his balls.

“Father,” he breathed firmly, and with fervid adoration. “We belong to you, and you belong to us.” 

“We will do anything for you.” 

Fëanáro nodded. 

“Close your eyes,” Curufinwë softly commanded, while leaning in to kiss his lips, then his eyelids, then the rest of his face. His right hand closed around his hardened cock. Tyelcormo's fingers retreated to his opening. 

Fëanáro began to tremble and jolt under their ministrations, and little by little he surrendered himself to them. 

*

“Why can't I meet your father?” Findecáno asked, holding his head high to meet Maitimo's eyes.

He had made his way to Fëanáro's quarters, now the King's quarters, with the intent of talking to him (or attempt to), but he had almost changed his mind again. Maitimo, suddenly emerging from behind a column, had intercepted him a split second before he could leave. 

“I told you, he's busy right now. Whatever you want to tell him, you can tell me,” Maitimo replied, looking down at him impassively.

“If he wants to be High King, his first duty is to grant an audience to anybody who may seek it.”

“Oh, and here I thought you reserved that title to your father.”

Findecáno gritted his teeth at the scorn in Maitimo's tone. It seemed almost an illusion now, a wishful daydream, that they had been friends once, very close friends. They had shared all their most intimate thoughts and hopes...or maybe it had not been as thorough, or as sincere as he had believed. Melkor's lies alone couldn't have effected that division. Melkor's lies hadn't been able to sever other ties, ties that seemed to be made of silima. The one between Finwë and Fëanáro – it had taken him several blows in Ungoliantë's unlight to destroy that. The one between Fëanáro and his sons. Findecáno knew, bitterly, that only death could terminate that too.

“How long do I have to wait?”

“If you truly wish to talk to him, come back in the morn-...in a few hours.” 

“A few hours? What's keeping him so occupied?” Findecáno asked, beginning to feel as if Maitimo were deliberately leading him on. 

“It is none of your business.”

“I am a prince, and his nephew. I have a right to see the King and voice my concerns to him.” 

“I told you: not now.”

“Then at least I demand a valid justification.”

“You don't need more than my word.” 

Findecáno couldn't have told if it was thanks to long-brewing anger and frustration or a sudden impetus, but he managed to push past Maitimo, catching him by surprise and shoving him towards the wall. He scuttled into the antechamber, in the bluish light of the lamps, and then on under the vaults into the bedchamber. 

“Finno, stop -”

Findecáno stopped on his own, stupefied. “Wh-...what are they doing?” 

Beyond the see-through curtains hung in the centre of the room, on a large bed, amidst a tangle of bodies, Fëanáro was squeezed between Carnistir and Telufinwë, kneeling astride the former and blanketed by the latter, rocking his hips as he took both their cocks inside his ass.

Maitimo pulled Findecáno away. “...it's called sex.”

“Sex,” Findecáno repeated dazedly. “Your brothers and your father-...you too.”

“...of course me too.” Maitimo took a deep breath, and led Findecáno towards a sofa in an adjacent room. He had to explain, and it was probably for the better.

*

Findecáno came back several hours later, as Maitimo and he had agreed. They had talked – and their conversation hadn't degenerated into name-calling – for the first time in decades.

Maitimo himself led him into the bedchamber. 

Fëanáro sat under the sheets, seemingly still naked. Findecáno couldn't tell if it was an attempt to make him ill at ease, or if Fëanáro simply didn't want to leave the bed, or was in no condition to. Findecáno wondered if he ever got out of it while he was in his rooms. He stared fixedly as Findecáno approached. His steely gaze was harder to hold in the muted light, its brilliancy could have burnt into his soul.

Findecáno steadied himself, and lost no time in preambles. He wasn't there to exchange pleasantries. “I agree with you...we must leave, and quickly. But we also need unity. I am willing to be an intermediary with my father, but only upon condition that you show willingness in turn to heed us...find compromises.”

“What do you want me to do, exactly? Be clear.”

Sex apparently made Fëanáro more amenable, but not any less straightforward, or brusque. 

Findecáno played along. “You can't take decisions on your own, and expect us to follow without protest. Every decision must be a joint one.” 

“Your father would relinquish his claim to the kingship, in return?”

The question made Findecáno's heart thunder in his chest, but he forced his next words (words he had planned) out, his tone still decisive. “...you could share the kingship, too.”

As he had dreaded, Fëanáro's reaction was far from favourable.

“So what you are actually asking me to do is to give up my rightful title, in addition to everything else that has been taken from me.”

“Nobody will ever take your place as grandfather's -”

Findecáno stopped too late. The mention of Finwë was more than enough to make Fëanáro lose control. 

“Your father would,” he snarled, squeezing the sheet that covered him in his hands. “Your father would push me to the side like my mother was and take everything for himself!”

“No -”

“And that would rob my sons of their birthright too.”

Fëanáro seemed ready to leap off the bed and lunge at Findecáno, who unconsciously took a step back. Stark before his eyes wasn't merely Fëanáro's distrust, his withering acrimony towards his half-family, but also (and more strikingly) his fear – fear of loss, fear to be unable to protect the ones he loved, again. Nonetheless, he plucked up all his courage, and prepared to speak again. He knew there wouldn't be a second chance.

“...we can pretend this conversation never took place, and continue as we have been doing. But I do not think that will lead us too far, or preserve us from further suffering. Moringotto wanted us to be divided. If we persist like this, we do his will. This _is_ an extraordinary situation. I wish to believe we can all set our controversies aside for the moment, and find new arrangements after we have eliminated the source of our woe.”

The impromptu speech was more effectual than Findecáno would have expected (he made a mental note to use it with his father too, hoping it would have the same effect). Fëanáro groaned with rage, the kind Findecáno could wholly sympathise with, but gradually relaxed, his shoulders slumping.

“...all right, all right. I will...consider what you have told me. Come back -...later...I will send Nelyo for you,” he stammered out, looking down at his own hands.

Findecáno remained where he stood, next to where the curtains parted to allow entry. There was one more thing he wanted to ask, and it was in one easier and infinitely more arduous than all he had said until then. He had discussed that with Maitimo too.

“Can I-...could I-...sleep with you, too?”

Fëanáro raised his head again, taken by surprise. “Aren't you content to sleep with my son?” 

Findecáno smiled mirthlessly. “We haven't touched each other in years. I could accuse you of taking him away from me, perhaps...but I think- I think I always knew he would choose you, though not as...intimately.” He moved towards the bed. Up close Fëanáro simply looked tired. Terribly tired, and desolate. The sight rekindled Findecáno's own sorrow. 

“You aren't the only one who's suffering.”

“I have been grieving the longest,” Fëanáro contended, but beckoned for Findecáno to sit on the bed. 

Findecáno did. He sat and Fëanáro pulled him flush against himself, and they kissed. Findecáno's hands found purchase on Fëanáro's waist, and he held on to him during that first tentative dash of a new stimulus.

“Are you doing this out of spite? So you can boast about it to your father?”

“I wouldn't whore myself just to spite you.”

“Then why?”

“...Maitimo said it's the best way to alleviate sorrow, and it's the quickest way to get to know each other under a...different light.”

Fëanáro huffed, in irony or disenchantment, it was impossible to tell, but he let Findecáno lean in for one more kiss.

Their lips locked and their tongues slid against each other. Fëanáro snuck his hands Findecáno's shirt, caressing his chest, and pulled the garment over his head as soon as the kiss broke. The rest of his clothing swiftly followed. The sheet was flung aside to reveal Fëanáro's nakedness. 

Findecáno straddled him, pushing him against the headboard. His mouth latched onto his neck, dotting it with nips, dodging the already existing marks. Fëanáro's right hand curled around his cock and worked expert fingers on it. 

Soon after Maitimo, who had been observing from not too far away, joined them, and guided and seconded Findecáno in his exploration of his father's body, and when at last Findecáno buried himself into Fëanáro, Maitimo reclaimed him. Findecáno well-nigh wept for joy, and it hardly mattered that Maitimo's left hand entwined with Fëanáro's, and that his own name became inextricably mixed with the word 'father', the elation he felt gave him hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Máhanaxar is the Ring of Doom.


	2. Chapter 2

Findecáno did his best to prevent his siblings and parents (but above all his father) from finding out about his visits to Fëanáro's quarters, at least until he had Fëanáro's response. 

All his circumspection proved ineffectual with Írissë. 

“You've fucked with Maitimo,” she said, with a mix of jealousy and hopefulness, cornering Findecáno in his own bedroom when he snuck back to it. The spark of joy she had glimpsed in his eyes before he could mask it had been revelatory enough. There weren't any other reasons for him to be as happy.

Írissë grew more restive with each passing day. She couldn't go out and ride, and it would still be a while before they could depart. She hated being cooped up within the boundaries of the palace grounds, and the fact that she couldn't meet her cousins either made her feel utterly helpless. 

Findecáno was happy to confide in his sister. She listened to everything he had to tell with understanding, and provided useful insights. Írissë had a more thorough knowledge of the dynamics of Fëanáro's family than even he did. She had spent weeks out hunting with all of them, days frolicking in their house. She was friends with Curufinwë's wife, too, and didn't show any surprise when Findecáno blundered out that Fëanáro and his sons were used to sleeping together.

She chuckled softly at his embarrassment. “It's hard not to entertain the possibility it if you see them interact in private. To be honest, it never seemed...aberrant to me, it's natural, rather, almost...- necessary, like breathing, for them,” she explained, “but I'd never have imagined you would end up in bed with Uncle!”

Findecáno smiled sheepishly. “Me neither, believe me. I think-...I think I might just have been jealous. But what's done is done...and perhaps, hopefully...it will lead to something even better.”

Írissë remained with Findecáno, and when Maitimo came to fetch him – later than Findecáno had been hoping, but he couldn't complain – she went with them. Once she was back in the rooms that were so familiar to her, she marched to Tyelcormo, and threw herself at him, grumbling about having a score to settle with him. 

Fëanáro was sitting at the large round table in the antechamber, fully dressed, surrounded by what looked like maps and sundry sheets with annotations and calculations on them. Curufinwë sat next to him, with his wife. The twins hovered in the background, busy packing a dozen scrolls tightly in a small casket.

Maitimo went to stand behind his father, putting his hands on his shoulders. 

Fëanáro looked more regal, and more rested than he had three days earlier. He also appealed, to Findecáno, in a way he never had before. 

“I have discussed your proposal with my sons” he began, speaking quickly but clearly. The twins both stopped and turned towards Findecáno, whereas Curufinwë's face took on a grim expression (Findecáno noticed that his wife took his left hand in her own). “There will be no talk of a high king so long as Moringotto is at large. We will set that title aside, as you suggested. Your father and I will be...regents, both with the same powers and duties. Nelyo will preserve Father's crown, and I will keep his personal belongings.” He paused to let his words sink in, never taking his penetrating gaze off of Findecáno's expectant face. “Is this a suitable arrangement?” he asked, after a while.

“It's-...it could be viable.” 

Fëanáro inclined his head in acknowledgement of Findecáno's evasiveness. He was only an intermediary. “We will see what your father thinks, then,” he said, with the barest hint of sarcasm. 

“I will talk to him as soon as possible,” Findecáno assured. Exhilaration coursed through him. The offer was so close to what he himself had had in mind that he almost didn't believe it. He lifted his head to look at Maitimo, who smiled. 

Curufinwë opened his mouth to say something, but Fëanáro hushed him with a wave of his hand.

“Good. Do you wish to stay?”

“No, I shall return immediately, lest they become suspicious, given Írissë's...absence, too.” He doubted she would leave any time soon. Fëanáro and his sons did as well. “...I could be back in a few hours, when they're asleep, I suppose, if -”

“Fine, we will be here...” Fëanáro twisted his neck to look up at Maitimo “both Nelyo and I.”

*

Findecáno's enthusiasm waned as soon as he was face to face with his father. He realised, looking at his tired face, that he didn't have the slightest idea of how to breach the subject with him, and the more he dithered, the more he felt like he had betrayed him, not just by discussing new political arrangements with Fëanáro without his knowledge and consent, but by having sex with him too, while his father hardly slept to organise the long march ahead of them.

Thus it was with a heavy heart that he crept back to Fëanáro's apartment hours later. He went, because indecisiveness ate at him, and hoping to ask Maitimo's help. It was Macalaurë who met him in the foyer, where he seemed to be busy reviewing a heap of lists.

“Findecáno,” he greeted, his melodious voice cool as the breeze that swelled the curtains now and then.

Findecáno greeted him back with a curt nod of his head.

“An admirable initiative. Have you talked to your father yet?”

“No, I haven't,” Findecáno firmly replied. Macalaurë, ever observant, was testing him, and he would not show weakness to him.

“...of course, you wouldn't be here to divert yourself if that were the case, I presume.”

“Does it displease you? That I am...reaching out to your father?” Findecáno challenged in turn. 

Macalaurë's lips thinned to an indulgent smile.

“Of course not. I will do all that's in my power to foster collaboration...for the common good. Though I sincerely hope you do know what you are doing,” he said, and stood aside to let Findecáno in.

In the main bedroom, Tyelcormo was nowhere to be seen, and Írissë was rolling her hips against Curufinwë's face while kissing Curufinwë's wife. The ease between them attested to the fact that they had done the same many times before.

Fëanáro lay next to her, with Maitimo between his own legs, his head thrown back and his raven dark hair spilling like a wave of obsidian over the hem of the cushion upon which his upper body rested.

Three days earlier, the prospect of joining them would have repulsed Findecáno. He wanted to, now, despite his thrumming guilt. He had been in the same position as Maitimo, had had his uncle's body warm and pliant under and around his own.

“Finno. Undress,” said Telufinwë, coming up behind him and snapping him out of his recollection. His tone was gruff, but Findecáno was grateful he didn't want to talk and seemed to tolerate his presence there. Pityafinwë followed. They smelled of lemongrass, and had evidently just taken a bath after very likely doing their share of the work outside. They both hopped on the heap of cushions that had been laid down next to the bed, to make room for all of them. Telufinwë knelt behind Héruminyë and plunged into her without any further ado. Pityafinwë did the same with Curufinwë. 

Írissë laughed, and squeezed Héruminyë's face against her own breasts, while Telufinwë began to fuck her.

Findecáno's excitement soared and drowned out his anxiety. He shed his clothing, and moved towards Maitimo, and Carnistir who had been hidden behind his oldest brother. 

“Finno.” Maitimo momentarily stopped moving, craned his neck, and greeted him with a kiss. His face was beaded with droplets of sweat, and his hair dishevelled, but to Findecáno he looked more handsome than ever. “Take him in your mouth,” he commanded, giving a quick tug to his father's turgid cock. 

Carnistir made room for him, and Findecáno lay down between him and Fëanáro. He kissed from his exposed neck, dotted with even more marks than the previous time (it was ironic to know that the high collars that made him look even more forbidding when he appeared in public were simply meant to hide those). After licking and suckling on it, his mouth kissed its way over the tight muscles of his chest to his right nipple, and finally to his cock, close, so so close to where Maitimo's own shaft moved in and out of him. He stuck out his tongue and tentatively licked it. 

“I'll get him ready for you, then we switch,” he heard Carnistir say behind him, while he took the tip of Fëanáro's cock between his lips.

“Finno crosses new lines,” Írissë said breathlessly, still indulging the delights of Curufinwë's tongue while his brothers fucked him and his wife. 

“Still...well behind you,” Fëanáro panted, but didn't look up. He arched into Findecáno's mouth, and by the same motion Maitimo found a new angle to slam into him, eliciting louder and more lustful moans from him. 

Carnistir got Findecáno to raise his ass, and began stretching him with slippery fingers. The oil was lukewarm, helping him to relax, and Carnistir quickly found his prostate, which he massaged with precise touches. The pleasure emboldened Findecáno, and the took as much as he could of Fëanáro's cock inside his mouth, moving his head up and down unabashedly.

“There, ready to go,” Carnistir said after some time, taking his fingers out of Findecáno to pull him back, until he was lying face up. 

Maitimo left his father's body and turned to him, while Carnistir took his brother's place inside Fëanáro. 

*

Findecáno let two more days pass without being able to approach his father. In the end, it was Írissë who brought matters to a head, in her own way. Írissë was never cautious (and it was undoubtedly because of that that she got along with her cousins so well), and Turucáno not only noted her absences – how lengthy they were, and how high-spirited she looked after weeks of restlessness – he also easily guessed where they took her, and confronted her.

It was never recommendable to rebuke Írissë, or debate her choices, and when Turucáno reported his concerns to their father, she told him everything. From what Findecáno was attempting to what Findecáno and she did with Fëanáro and his sons. 

Ñolofinwë burst into Findecáno's bedroom screaming that he was going to kill Fëanáro, Írissë livid behind him. Findecáno had to forcibly restrain him, while Írissë kicked the door shut and vented her frustration on the polished wood. When he managed to calm him down enough for him to listen, he started babbling about his plan, but he wasn't able to add much to what Írissë had already told him. 

“The majority of the Ñoldor are with me,” Ñolofinwë interrupted him. There was hurt, in addition to anger, in his voice, and his eyes were wild, almost as wild as Fëanáro's when he had first reappeared in Tirion.

Findecáno trembled, still holding onto his arms. “Father, if you think you can claim the high kingship for yourself by strength of numbers alone, you're wrong. He won't let it to you.”

“I am the one who deserves it the most!” Ñolofinwë yelled. “I know more about our people than he does. What has he ever done for them? I have always been the one to deal with their needs and concerns”.

“I know...of course.” Fëanáro had rarely been in Tirion (but even so a good third of the Ñoldor was on his side, and he had managed to sway most of the rest to depart). “I agree you are more apt to it, and have worked harder to deserve it. But if you both dig your heels in, and continue to prod each other, it will ultimately hurt the people, too.”

“So I should make concessions while he does whatever he pleases...including bedding my children. Is it really true that you...lay with him? Voluntarily?” he asked, after a fraught pause. He looked so distressed that Findecáno almost didn't have the heart to reply (or tell him the truth).

“...yes, I did. But that's beside the point,” he promptly added. He glanced at Írissë. She stood in front of the door, arms crossed over her chest, and offered no help. A part of him was angry at her, but he knew it would have been wrong to blame her for something his own hesitation had brought about. “He- he has agreed to collaborate with us. He has proposed that you and he act as co-rulers until Moringotto's defeat.”

Ñolofinwë wrenched his arms free, incredulous of what his son was saying. “And you believe him? What, he has wheedled you in between whispering sweet words and empty promises while bedding you, and your sister? While lying-...in bed with his own sons?”

Findecáno felt himself blush. “Do you think us that manipulable?”

“I know he's capable of anything,” Ñolofinwë spat. “For Eru's sake, he opens his legs for his sons, and now you too, like a -”

Írissë burst out laughing. It was a limpid, cheery sound that clashed with the situation, but not with her sentiments. Her father's concern and indignation, however justified, were ridiculous to her. “Yes, father, he's capable of anything, but loving his sons isn't one of his faults,” she said. 

Ñolofinwë regarded her. Írissë had spent more time in her uncle's house than in her own ever since she had come of age. He had been pettily satisfied when Melkor's lies and then Fëanáro's own deeds had compromised relations between their families to the point that she had had to interrupt her visits, though, unlike Findecáno, she had continued to see her cousins until right before the banishment. 

Írissë moved from the door, her airy white gown fluttering as she walked towards her father. 

“Father, I would love to see you become High King. I've always considered you a King. But I won't stop loving my cousins for your sake, or Fëanáro's, or anybody else's, because it makes me happy to be with them, and that's all that matters to me,” she asserted, calm and confident, looking into her father's eyes to make sure he acknowledged her earnestness. “Think about how hard it must have been for Finno to even go to talk to him. Will you really stigmatise him for seeking a reconciliation?” she asked, then smiled and drew her father into a hug “...and you know, you could try fucking Fëanáro too. You're sure to enjoy it. It will be a worthwhile diversion, if nothing else.” The embarrassed glint in her father's gaze at that almost made her laugh again. 

She left after hugging her brother too. Ñolofinwë turned her words in his mind as he watched her go, then sighed, and rubbed his forehead with his right hand.

Findecáno caught his left arm again. “Father, I-...I never meant to jeopardise your position, or disrespect you in any way, I only -”

Ñolofinwë gently silenced him, and hugged him. He had spent his whole life in the shadow Fëanáro (and his mother) cast over his family, desperate to prove himself exemplary as a prince, and a better man than his half-brother. What hurt him the most, right then, was the realisation that Findecáno had been afraid to talk to him. He brushed a hand soothingly over his back.

“I will...go along with what you started. But I want to talk to Arafinwë first...-and then I want to talk to Maitimo...and Atarincë.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering that in canon Aredhel chooses to cross Nan Dungortheb to go visit her cousins instead of her father and brother, even after they had left her behind, I think it's fair to assume that she must have been pretty close to them, and my characterisation of her here is based on that.


	3. Chapter 3

Ñolofinwë had a lengthy conversation with Arafinwë right before his encounter with Fëanáro's sons. He wanted to clear his head, so as to be able to talk to them with due thoroughness.

He had arranged for them to come to Arafinwë's rooms. He had always felt particularly comfortable there. Their décor was refreshingly sober – there were none of the golds and reds which abounded the rest of the palace, none of the more flamboyant furnishings, and maybe he unconsciously associated their occupant's personality with them, too. 

Even their familiar cosiness failed to put Ñolofinwë at ease that day. He wet his lips, mulling on the more intimate ramifications of Findecáno's unanticipated initiative. If he could endeavour to enter into a political alliance with his half-brother, he found it hard to come to terms with what he did in his bedroom.

“It is not something _you_ have any right to control, or to judge,” Arafinwë calmly pointed out.

Ñolofinwë shook his head, arms crossed over his chest as he paced back and forth in front of the open window. He often shivered. The air seemed cooler than usual, but keeping the windows closed made the constant darkness seem even more oppressive. “He has been sleeping with his sons for years. If it were only one of them, it could be understandable...immoral, but understandable. You don't choose family, we all know that,” he surly remarked. “But like this? It is lewd, and altogether wrong.”

“Ñolvo, you know your daughter is very liberal in her dalliances. Do you consider her debauched because of it?”

“No, but she isn't sleeping with her children.”

“Fëanáro's sons are all adults, and have been for a very long time. The oldest of them are practically our age. ...you don't even know the exact circumstances of their relationship with their father – and each other. Unless you believe there was...misuse,” Arafinwë grimaced to even say the word, let alone seriously entertain the possibility. “...but I've never seen any indication of it, and I refuse to suppose that Nerdanel...or father, would have been oblivious it, or let it happen. It may be far from virtuous, and unhealthy if you will, but to focus on who he beds rather on his willingness to finally listen to us seems foolish to me. His rashness is not suited to ruling, but he has the charisma to enforce whatever decision he makes through it. His sons are the only ones who can channel it, bridle it, and we should let them do it.”

It was unwonted, and disheartening by virtue of its very oddness, to hear Arafinwë adopt such a drastically pragmatic perspective. But he was probably – as always – right. Besides, Ñolofinwë knew his little brother was under much strain, too. Arafinwë had been striving, almost begging, for concord since Fëanáro's return. 

“He still has the gall to act as if Father were his alone.”

“...do you need to complain? Or do you perhaps not truly want to go through with this? If you are doing it just for Findecáno's sake, if your heart's not in it, you would do better not to go any further. You can't hope to establish a working partnership with Fëanáro unless you are entirely willing to.”

Ñolofinwë took a deep breath, then sighed noisily. He knew it was despicable, and he hated himself for it, but a part of him would have really wished to go back on his word, and it was chiefly the thought that Findecáno would be disappointed that spurred him to go on. “I think I have good cause to be bitter.”

Arafinwë lifted his head. All that Ñolofinwë didn't say out loud was written on his face. For a moment Arafinwë saw him again as he had looked after Fëanáro had threatened him, recalled the shock and the fear. 

“We will ask him to share Father's belongings too, with us and our sisters.” 

“Findis has left.” 

Findis had left immediately after the Darkening, with barely a word of farewell. Ñolofinwë couldn't help feel betrayed, especially since their mother hadn't offered any kind of support, either.

“She's still out sister,” Arafinwë quickly mumbled. He sympathised with his oldest sister more than his other siblings. His absence had never been rued as Fëanáro's and his presence never as heeded as either of his brothers'. He had been loved, but he had never even hoped to be able to monopolise attention, as both Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë had sought to do. He had learnt to live with that, as had Findis. “She has her own life, and you know that. You can't expect her to forsake it for you.”

Ñolofinwë made no reply. He paced restlessly for a while longer, until Arafinwë beckoned him to sit down next to him. 

“Why?” he cried out, slumping against the back of the sofa. “Why won't the Valar let Father come back?...this...none of this would be happening if Father were here,” he almost sobbed. He had enquired about Finwë's return. It had been the first thing he had done, after Fëanáro's sons had brought the news from Formenos. Námo had only deigned to reply that he wouldn't release Finwë ere a very long time had passed. He shouldn't have been as upset as he had been. The Valar hadn't even told them Finwë had been slain when it had happened. “I understand that with the...way he died -”

Arafinwë put a hand to his cheek, hushing him. If they had known Finwë would return, they would have had something else to look forward to, instead of having only revenge to aim at. But he wasn't sure things would have worked out in a less turbulent fashion. Ñolofinwë may have had good reason to want to ignore it, but he had noticed his father had become disillusioned with Valinor, or rather with the Valar's inconsistent intromissions. If Finwë had escaped Melkor's brutality, he would have lived to see the Valar fail – once again – to bring their brother to justice, while they still harassed his beloved firstborn.

*

“He has _summoned_ you. So much for collaboration,” Lalwen snarled, while she and Ñolofinwë headed towards Fëanáro's quarters, the day after. Arafinwë had maintained it would be best for Ñolofinwë to go alone, to show his good faith, but Lalwen didn't trust letting their brother do that. Fëanáro's sons would be there too, and if some of them were less boisterous than the others, they were on the whole their father's creatures. 

“He is the king...in his own belief, at least. I suppose he is trying to demonstrate his own goodwill.” Such a call would have been unthinkable before. Even though they were separated by only two corridors, there could have been an impassable wall between them.

Lalwen's snort echoed in the unnatural stillness of the palace. There was no point in keeping it tidy anymore, so the servants were all helping with the packing, outside. “Then he could have rather sent an invitation, couldn't he? It is painfully obvious to me that this is nothing more a farce. He says you will collaborate, but he will continue to act as he ever has. Facts are compelling, not words, and he has a knack for beguiling people with the latter.”

“At least _we_ will have tried,” Ñolofinwë countered, though he was grateful for Lalwen's intransigence. It was a safe haven to retreat to, if everything else should fail, and it gladdened him to have the point of view of someone who would accept no compromises, who would stand by him no matter what. 

The same, on the opposing side, had been provided by Curufinwë, who had averred in no uncertain terms that he was firmly opposed to his father sharing his rightful power, given that Ñolofinwë was the head of a secondary branch in the succession line, and should have obeyed like all subjects were supposed to. It had been somewhat astonishing to learn from Maitimo, instead, that Macalaurë agreed with Curufinwë's reasoning, on principle at least, because unlike Curufinwë he was ready to bow to the benefits of a truce. Tyelcormo and Carnistir didn't care for titles. All they wanted was their father's wishes to be fulfilled, and for him to be spared any more suffering, and for that reason they didn't want him to interact with him (Ñolofinwë had scoffed at that – as if he had been the one to threaten his half-brother at sword point). The twins, apparently, disliked Ñolofinwë simply for being an outsider. Írissë had explained to him that Pityafinwë and Telufinwë were fiercely protective, of their father and brothers as of each other, and had at first been not too well disposed towards her, or towards Curufinwë's wife, but that if he proved he could fit, they would, in time, warm up to him too.

Ñolofinwë highly doubted he could prove that. He still wasn't sure he could have a civil conversation with his half-brother, either. 

“You don't have to do this,” Lalwen said, halting suddenly in the middle of the corridor. She didn't need to parse Ñolofinwë's mind to detect his discomfort.

Ñolofinwë attempted to smile, but didn't manage to. His tense shoulders sagged, and all he said was “thank you.”

The atmosphere in Fëanáro's quarters was surprisingly relaxed. Plenty of lamps were lit all around the parlour, and a wind chime hanging from one of the columns tinkled softly whenever the breeze rattled it. Fëanáro sat on a divan, between Maitimo to his right, an arm laid across his shoulders, and Curufinwë to the left, the fingers of his right hand linked with his left. 

Finwë's crown lay in the middle the low table in front of the divan, lamplight dancing on the gems decorating it. Ñolofinwë's eyes lingered on it a moment too long. The last time he had seen it on his father's head, had been on the day he had left for Formenos. They had almost quarrelled. They had been on the balcony which opened behind the royal bedroom, and Finwë had cast a melancholy gaze over the town (the last). He had kept ranting – he didn't remember what he had said, it was meaningless now – angry and hurt to see his father go, but Finwë had said they would talk things out upon his return. Had promised him all would be mended. He felt tears sting his eyes. He tore his gaze away from the hurtful object and met Fëanáro's gaze. 

Fëanáro offered no greeting. The silence was broken only by the wind chime, and then by Macalaurë, who invited Ñolofinwë and Lalwen to sit opposite his father. 

Still, neither spoke.

Lalwen loured at Fëanáro, though he seemed not to pay her any heed.

A strong gust blew down from the small oval windows overhead, and made the chime ring loudly.

Fëanáro shifted, tucked his loosely bound hair behind his ear. “I didn't...don't appreciate full brother in heart,” he blundered out, somewhat disjointedly. “It was...uncalled-for. Refusing to accept you as a brother is not something I did on an idle whim, or in petty scorn.”

Ñolofinwë marvelled at how uncannily calm Fëanáro seemed, even if his words stung him, and deepened his hesitation. “I thought it could be the best foundation for a new...friendlier relationship...but perhaps I was too much of an optimist.” 

“Not so long as my mother remains dead.” 

“How brazen can you be to say that,” Lalwen said in a huff, forestalling her brother's rebuttal. “If Father hadn't been cozened by your whines, _he_ wouldn't be dead now.”

“That's-...not -” Fëanáro protested, but his voice cracked, and he said no more. Curufinwë tightened his hand around his. 

“The King made the sole proper decision, politically speaking. The ones responsible for his death, and who deny us his return, are Moringotto and his brethren the mighty Valar,” Macalaurë said evenly, coming to stand next to Lalwen. “I was under the impression you came here not to recriminate, but to set a _true_ basis for future concord.”

In the ensuing silence, the sound of Írissë's laughter, overriding Curufinwë's wife's more hushed tones, filtered from a nearby room. Lalwen turned towards the voices, piqued by what Macalaurë's had said, and by the realisation that Írissë was there – but also intrigued. 

“Exactly.” Fëanáro shook himself, and his gaze locked with Ñolofinwë's again. “It is as I told your son. I will hold my end of the agreement if you hold yours.”

“What guarantees do we have of your goodwill?” Ñolofinwë queried, pointedly.

“The same I have of yours. I do not expect trust to spring out of nowhere, but I do think the best way to persuade each other of it is to share quarters. We never spent much time together -”

“That's certainly not my fault.”

“I _certainly_ don't regret it,” Fëanáro grunted back, his shoulders stiffening to make him look more like his usual haughty self. “We should live in the same rooms. I don't want collaboration to become an excuse to further delay our departure, and the best way to effect it without hindering is to live together.”

“...are you doing this just to make things easier for yourself?”

Fëanáro raised one eyebrow in surprise, as if Ñolofinwë had said the most senseless thing in the world. “If I wanted to make things easier for me, I'd rather simply leave you behind” he replied, and Lalwen's head snapped back to him, indignation sparkling in her blue-grey eyes. “You can stay too...sister, if you wish. Worry not, the rooms here are big.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't managed to fit any smut in this chapter, I'll try to amend that in the next.


	4. Chapter 4

“Your personal protector?” Fëanáro asked, immediately after Lalwen left, finally giving in to the curiosity to see what Írissë was doing with Curufinwë's wife. He slumped back against the sofa, and pulled both Maitimo and Curufinwë closer, wrapping an arm around each's waist. The glance he cast Macalaurë, who had remained standing the whole time, flitting about the room with the levity of a butterfly, was just as enveloping.

Ñolofinwë wished Lalwen had stayed, because without her there next to him he was distressingly aware of Fëanáro's change of attitude towards his sons. Lalwen didn't know about their relationship, and so long as she had been there they had behaved towards one another as they were wont to - with that peculiar closeness that was more often than not interpreted as mere possessiveness on Fëanáro's part. 

“She is...prudent,” he finally replied, in a way he hoped would sound insinuating enough. 

It elicited nothing more than an unimpressed shrug from Fëanáro, a barely perceptible movement which was all but swallowed by his sons' bodies. “I suppose. Well, I wish to retire now,” he said, in a tone which precluded objection. “What have you decided?...about staying here.”

Ñolofinwë had no answer to that. Fëanáro's suggestion had lurked at the back of his mind during the whole conversation, but he had been unable to arrive at a decision, while focusing on disputing and negotiating. The only thing he was sure of was his discomfort. He decided to be frank about it. “I wouldn't want to become your...hostage.”

For once, Fëanáro seemed to respond with some sympathy. “...it is a natural reaction, I guess, given our...past clashes. But it is unwarranted. None of the doors here have locks, and you are free to leave whenever you wish,” he assured, and then the thoughtfulness was gone. “You can stay or go, but I want you here when I wake up. We have much to discuss yet.” He freed his right hand and waved it around. “All my personal belongings – the few of them that didn't happen to be in Formenos – are already packed and safely stored elsewhere, so you can snoop or inspect or do whatever else you wish,” he concluded.

He stood up, and Curufinwë followed. 

“I shall go and relay the result of our conversation to Findecáno,” Maitimo said, standing up in turn.

Ñolofinwë noted the hint displeasure on Fëanáro's face, the way his nose wrinkled in an almost childish manner, and how it melted when Maitimo dived down and kissed him on the mouth.

What saved Ñolofinwë from acute embarrassment then, was the provoking, cocky, almost triumphant, glance Curufinwë threw at him, which also gave him an excuse not to look at Maitimo when he walked past him with Macalaurë.

Fëanáro strained his ears towards Curufinwë's room, his thin lips pulling into a faint grin. “It sure sounds the ladies are having fun...even your stuck-up sister.”

“She isn't -”

“She looks.”

“You do too.”

“Well, you might find out I'm not...with those who deserve it, that is.”

*

Héruminyë reclined against the headboard of her bed, idly swinging a feather fan (though there was no need to), with all the haughtiness of a Valië. Her body was barely covered by a lacy nightgown which hung loosely from her shoulders. Írissë lay half over her, in a similar state of undress, her face buried in her breasts.

“My Lady,” she said, as soon as she spotted Lalwen standing in the doorway, her eyes narrowing to match the severity of her voice. 

Írissë's head shot up, and she looked over her shoulder. “Aunt?” 

“What can I do for you?” 

Lalwen held Héruminyë's gaze, but ignored her question, and addressed Írissë instead.

“It's unseemly for you to be here with...-” she gestured towards the bed, in a manner which bordered dangerously on lack of respect “- while your father is arguing about our future.”

Írissë sighed, and drew herself up. “From what I've overheard, it didn't sound like he was in any trouble. They didn't even raise their voices. You did.” 

“Considering the circumstances.”

“Don't be so pessimistic, please,” Írissë motioned for her to come in. “You should set your worries aside, too, from time to time.”

Lalwen shook her head, but Írissë knew her preferences well, and could see the curiosity alongside the tension, in the way she stood, and the way she looked at them.

“Come here,” she persisted. 

“Either that or leave this moment,” Héruminyë said curtly, ostensibly galled by Lalwen's indecision.

Later, Lalwen wondered if Héruminyë hadn't said that to goad her into staying. She strode towards the bed (forcing herself to ignore that it was Curufinwë's bed), and sat down next to Írissë.

Héruminyë smiled archly. She set the fan on the nightstand, and knelt up. Her nightgown slid from her shoulders and she tossed it to the side, before crawling on her knees towards Lalwen. Despite the cool breeze, her skin radiated warmth, and Lalwen noticed a sheen of perspiration on her large breasts. She advanced, until her dark nipples hovered close to Lalwen's face. Then she hooked her fingers under her chin, and forced her to raise her head. 

Lalwen studied her face, the conceit which tarnished the beauty of her half-Vanyarin half-Ñoldorin features – like her own – and thought, not for the first time, that she could just have been a sister to her husband. “Birds of a feather do flock together. I couldn't imagine how someone would want to marry into such a family.”

“Your niece seems to like _all_ of us.” 

Lalwen's scowl filled Héruminyë with satisfaction, and her fingers crept to her mouth, pressing to slip inside it.

Lalwen gripped her wrist and forced them to stop, incensed that Héruminyë would even think of doing that, but unable to curb the lust she had kindled in her. She twisted her upper body, leant in and her mouth latched onto Héruminyë's left nipple. She sucked on it, hard, and bit down on it and pulled, drawing a pained hiss from the other woman.

She felt Írissë's hands at her back, undoing the laces of her blouse, as her mouth veered to the other nub. She let her do. As soon as the combined effort of her wriggling and Írissë's hands had rid her of all her clothing, she pushed Héruminyë back and lay over her. 

Héruminyë's right hand darted between their bodies, and down between Lalwen's legs. Her fingers teased her opening but quickly slid upwards and pinched her clit.

Lalwen growled, muttering curses under her breath while she fumbled to pin her arms to the bed. If Héruminyë wanted a contest, she would give it to her.

*

“Relax,” Fëanáro cooed, distressed by how Curufinwë remained glum even while he knelt naked atop him.

“I hate it,” Curufinwë replied. “I hate _him_.”

Fëanáro lifted his hands to Curufinwë's drawn face. Curufinwë welcomed their touch on his cheeks, closing his eyes for a moment as they brushed his temples, then caught them with his own, and kissed them – the back, and over each knuckle to the palm, and up and down each finger. The hands which had fostered him, moulded him. He pressed them both to his chest. 

“It's only a temporary thing,” Fëanáro said.

Curufinwë surlily shook his head. “He's your subject, he swore he would follow you and should just be doing that instead of trying to usurp you.” He had already complained to his father, to his brothers, and had said the same to Ñolofinwë's face too. It was rare for him to repeat himself, but nothing infuriated him more than seeing his father slighted. 

“I won't let him do that.”

“ _I_ won't” Curufinwë vowed. He shook his hair from his face, and leant down for a kiss, coaxing his father's tongue with his own until it slipped inside his mouth.

His hands let go of Fëanáro's – but they lingered on his chest – and reached down to wrap around his erection. He adjusted his stance, and eased it into himself. He relaxed, finally, unwinding to the familiar, cherished sensation of having his father inside him. Often, he too thought that sex was the only thing that was still right – to see the burning desire in his father's eyes and feel him quiver with the pleasure they exchanged. 

*

When Ñolofinwë opened his eyes, he couldn't tell where he was. He jolted to a sitting position and looked around, trying to make out his surroundings in the haze of his abrupt awakening. Then his gaze fell on the books and maps littering the table – Macalaurë had pulled out quite a few after Maitimo had taken the crown away – and remembered. 

The apartment was almost entirely still. The wind had stopped. No sound could be heard apart from the sombre call of an a owl and subdued voices somewhere in a nearby room. He swung his legs off of the sofa and realised that at some point someone had covered him with a blanket. He managed to catch it before it slid to the floor. 

His exhaustion had apparently gained the upper hand on his undecidedness. He wondered how long he had slept. He wondered if Lalwen was still there. Fëanáro didn't seem to be up yet, which meant he would still be with his son.

He rubbed his eyes and rose, before his thoughts could veer in unsavoury directions. He decided to head towards the voices, perhaps talk to whoever was awake. His brief search led him through a small round antechamber and across a corridor, and to the threshold of a bedchamber, which appeared to be Curufinwë's. His wife stood inside, behind Tyelperinquar, who sat hunched over on a stool, and was massaging his back. 

“You should rest more often,” she was saying, with a gentleness she wasn't renowned for. It would have been difficult to define Héruminyë motherly, but in that moment the care, the concern in her whole figure were undeniable.

“I cannot keep still,” Tyelperinquar retorted, wearily. 

He had been the closest to his grandfather when Melkor had slain him, and yet had been unable to do anything to help him. When the venomous cloud had passed, Héruminyë had had to slap him to get him to move again from where he had crumpled, after groping blindly in the darkness through rubble and screams towards the sound of his sobbing. Now, he still felt that if he ceased to move the darkness would pin him down and overcome him, and so he spent most of his time outside, in almost frenzied activity. 

“Lord?” he said, with some astonishment, when the rustling of fabric alerted him to Ñolofinwë's presence.

Ñolofinwë couldn't bring himself to say anything, partly because he felt like he had witnessed something he wasn't meant to, partly because he noticed Lalwen was peacefully asleep in that very room.

“Do you want me to rouse your sister?” Héruminyë ventured, inclining her head towards the bed.

“No, no,” Ñolofinwë denied, forcing a smile. “Let her rest.”

He nodded in greeting and quickly retreated, retracing his steps to the parlour. He sat down on the sofa again, and picked up a map, holding it with both hands. He looked at it dazedly. A large circle in red ink marked the spot where Valinor was connected to Middle Earth, the sole way to leave the continent. But Fëanáro claimed that the place was too inhospitable, its climate too harsh to permit the passage of a whole population. He claimed they needed ships. 

“You stayed,” Fëanáro's voice abruptly said behind him.

Ñolofinwë started violently, nearly tearing the map with the movement. He turned to see a half-naked Fëanáro standing behind him.

“You rested well?”

“Yes...someone covered me with a blanket, too.”

“It was Nelyo,” Fëanáro said, but offered no elucidations on why and when he had returned. He briskly walked over to a chest standing against the wall instead.

Ñolofinwë's eyes followed him, observed his every movement – searched his naked skin – as he opened it and picked up the first shirt he found without much thought. He pulled it on and combed his hair back to tie them behind his head. 

“Care to come with me to the kitchens?”

“The kitchens?”

“I haven't cooked anything in a while...in a long time,” Fëanáro said, somewhat wistfully. “I doubt I'll have any occasion to do it once we leave.”

Ñolofinwë nodded. He put the map back on the table, and stood up to join Fëanáro as he passed the sofa. They crossed the foyer, where Carnistir had taken Macalaurë's place and was – of all things – crocheting a large rectangular piece.

They started walking together in the eerie stillness of the palace. 

“Have you told your other sons about our encounter?” Fëanáro asked after some time.

“Of course.” 

“What about your wife?”

Ñolofinwë would have rather not answered that question and his reluctance wasn't lost on Fëanáro. “I-...haven't seen her in a while,” he was forced to admit. “She vehemently disagrees with the decision to leave. I think she might not want to have anything to do with me any longer.”

“I wouldn't have expected you to give up on her so easily.”

The remark would have stung, if Ñolofinwë hadn't had an obvious reply.

“Same for you.”

Fëanáro lifted one shoulder, with a remarkably indifferent expression. “Nerdanel and I were simply never suited to each other...our relationship died long before she left.” 

“...that is unsurprising given your...intimacy with your sons,” Ñolofinwë observed before he could stop himself.

“That has nothing to do with her,” Fëanáro countered, less detached at the mention of his sons.

“They're her children, too.”

“But they aren't her lovers.”

Ñolofinwë felt a strange twinge at the word 'lovers'. “Perhaps she found out...or sensed you were hiding something from her. I couldn't imagine her state of mind if she did.”

The words were blunt, but not meant to be offensive, and Fëanáro didn't seem to mind them at first. He continued striding down the corridor, but then abruptly wheeled around on him, and shoved him towards the wall, causing his head to bump against it. He took advantage of his surprise and pain to cover his lips with his own, and scoured his mouth with his tongue. Ñolofinwë's eyes widened at the intrusion. His arms tried to push Fëanáro away. He didn't manage to, but he did manage to clamp his mouth shut. Fëanáro bit on his lower lip until he tasted blood. 

“There. Now you have something to hide from your wife, too...if she ever deigns to talk to you again,” he sneered, and resumed walking. 

Ñolofinwë quaked with an uncontrollable rage. He caught up to Fëanáro, grabbed him, and threw him almost bodily against the opposite wall, determined to administer the same treatment to him. Fëanáro didn't even squirm as his mouth was invaded, seemed in fact to goad him into more. 

When Ñolofinwë pulled back, they stood staring at each other, both panting and flushed.


	5. Chapter 5

In the kitchens, a host of servants was preparing food for the march. Ñolofinwë himself had ordered most of the cattle to be slaughtered soon after the Darkening, and the meat cured or smoked to be preserved. Now it was all being packed by some of the servants, while others baked sheet-thin bread at Fëanáro's behest with all the flour available in the Royal granaries. 

There wasn't much coimas. Yavanna's corn hadn't been sown in large quantities, and most of it had perished swiftly, withered by the Darkness that fell upon Aman in the wake of Morgoth's attack. The seeds had been preserved, however, and a few of the Yavannildi who had been in the service of the High King of the Ñoldor had agreed to follow his successor to Middle Earth. One of them was Héruminyë's mother's sister, and she hadn't been hard to persuade.

Fëanáro took some of the already leavened dough and set a large oil-filled pan on a stove. 

Ñolofinwë watched him throw lump after lump into the sizzling oil standing against a wall a few feet away from him, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression had to be sombre enough that one of the bakers stole a quick look at him and immediately averted her gaze. He couldn't help it. He kept reliving the kisses Fëanáro and he had exchanged mere moments before. The lingering sensation of Fëanáro's lips on his own and the way Fëanáro had seemed to give in to him only heightened his anger. 

As soon as he was done, Fëanáro put all the fried bread in a basket lined with clean tea towels. Ñolofinwë took the tray on which a servant had placed several jars of blackberry jam.

Back in the main room of Fëanáro's apartment, after a silent trek through the empty corridors, Arafinwë was sitting on one of the divans between Findaráto and Turucáno. Opposite them sat Lalwen, wrapped in one of Héruminyë's housegowns, with Maitimo, who held a seemingly asleep Findecáno, and Héruminyë herself. 

Tyelcormo, Carnistir, Curufinwë and Írissë had settled on a large sofa, which had been dragged between the two divans from somewhere else.

Their conversation died down as Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë arrived with the food. Ñolofinwë caught his brother's expectant gaze and gave him a small reassuring smile. Arafinwë's eyes filled with relief. Turucáno's gaze darkened even more instead. Ñolofinwë smiled at him too as he set the tray on the table, half-covering the still open maps. It would take time to prevail upon Turucáno, who was as unenthusiastic about the decision to depart as his mother, to accept the agreement between him and Fëanáro (and even more the manner by which it had been effected).

Fëanáro joined his sons on the sofa, acknowledging Arafinwë's presence there with nothing more than a perfunctory greeting, acting in fact as if he had expected it. Ñolofinwë sat down next to Lalwen. 

For a while they ate in near complete silence, save for the occasional muffled comment, and a brief disturbance when Héruminyë stood up and wrapped a few of the pastries in one of the towels, saying she wanted to set them aside for Tyelperinquar, who was asleep. It had been very rare for them to eat together if some official event didn't call for it, and it was as if each of them was at once incredulous and uncomfortable to be doing it in such an informal manner and unprecedented setting. 

It was Arafinwë who started the conversation again, after eating his fill of the sweet bread.

“Lalwendë told us you reached an agreement,” he said, his gentle voice betraying all his hopefulness. His left hand slid nervously back and forth on his knee. Findaráto noticed and silently placed his own over it. 

Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë looked at each other across the table. 

“We did,” the former said, licking a clump of sugar from his thumb, then jauntily added, “Ñolofinwë has also agreed to share quarters with me.”

It wasn't technically the truth, but Ñolofinwë chose not to dispute the assertion, even noticing Turucáno's snort at the lack of denial on his part.

Arafinwë became even more hopeful. “What will we do now?”

“We have agreed,” Ñolofinwë slowly said, putting a sharp emphasis on the 'we', “to postpone the departure for a few more weeks. I will take care to increase provisions in the meanwhile, and Fëanáro and his sons will take care of weaponry.”

“Will there be any official announcements?”

“A brief proclamation will suffice,” Fëanáro replied, “that, and appearing in public side by side.”

Tyelcormo quickly swallowed the mouthful he was eating and cleared his throat. “Father, since the departure is delayed, allow me to go south to look for camels. I'm sure I can manage to bring back a good number. They're more resistant than horses, and might prove invaluable on the march.”

“They will also be harder to ferry.”

“Ferry?” Arafinwë echoed, casting a worried glance at Ñolofinwë.

“We can't cross to Endórë in any other way,” Fëanáro flatly said, turning towards his youngest brother. “I assume you could help us obtain ships from your wife's family.”

Arafinwë's nervousness was renewed by the request – Findaráto's hand squeezed a little around his own –, but Tyelcormo spoke again before he could make up his mind what to reply. 

“Father, it would help the march be quicker.”

Tyelcormo's insistence persuaded Fëanáro to give serious, if uneasy, consideration to the request. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, his brow creasing. He dithered, not so much out of an unwillingness to accept the reasonability of Tyelcormo's proposal, but out of fear to let his son go far from him into the darkness. Even if Melkor was not likely to return to Valinor, nobody could be certain that there weren't other dangers lurking in the dark. Melkor had after all not been alone in his attack, and the Valar still sat idle on their thrones.

Tyelcormo spoke again. “Pityo and Telvo can come with me, and we will take a good number of people with us.”

“I can go with you, too,” Írissë offered, glancing at her father and aunt, who both nodded to her (not that it would have made a difference if they hadn't).

Findaráto who had seemed content to observe until then, finally spoke. “My brothers and I could help as well.” Both Angaráto and Aicanáro were eager to act. Aicanáro, ever the impetuous one, could barely be held back. 

Fëanáro remained conflicted, but at length nodded. “But be particularly careful,” he said – almost an entreat, the worry in his tone unmistakable – and reached over Carnistir's knees to squeeze Tyelcormo's left hand. 

“Of course,” Tyelcormo said, bouncing up. 

He laid a kiss to the back of his father's hand, then bent and kissed him on the lips – a light but lingering touch.

Turucáno raised both eyebrows, but made no remark when he saw that neither his father nor his aunt or uncle were unsettled by the unusual display of affection. 

Tyelcormo, Írissë and Findaráto left, saying they would immediately start to gather more people for the expedition. 

“Why do you say we need boats to cross to Endórë?” Arafinwë cautiously asked as soon as they were gone.

Fëanáro gestured to Curufinwë, who stood up and moved the tray so that he could lift the map Ñolofinwë had been examining after he had woken up. “Up here,” he said, pointing at the red circle, and both Turucáno and Arafinwë leant it to better examine it, “is the only place where Valinor is still linked to Endórë. It is entirely covered in ice, and dreadfully cold.”

“Colder than here now?” 

Arafinwë uttered the question as if he didn't think that could actually be true, but Curufinwë assented with no hesitation. Even so, Arafinwë failed to be entirely convinced, and he couldn't vindicate Fëanáro's assumption at any rate. He knew his kin-by-marriage too well. 

“I don't think Olwë would give us ships,” he tersely said.

Fëanáro frowned. “Why?”

“The Valar taught the Teleri how to make them, and the Valar don't want us to leave.”

Fëanáro sat forward from where he had been burrowed between Carnistir and Curufinwë. “Do you know how to build ships?”

“I have some notions, but not for the sort of vessel we would need.”

“...well, we will have to find a solution to that.” 

Just then Findecáno stirred, and Maitimo took it as an opportunity to divert the conversation from the potentially thorny topic. It could be discussed later, more calmly and more at length. They had to take one step at a time.

After Findecáno too had eaten, he and Maitimo left with Arafinwë and Turucáno, ostensibly to stage the public appearance that would announce Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro's reconciliation, hoping it would succeed in bringing their peoples together again too. Lalwen went with them, saying she wanted to talk to her younger brother.

The basket and the jam jars were empty, though Carnistir doggedly tried to scrape every last bit of it with a long-handled spoon before lying down on the couch and falling asleep. 

Fëanáro lovingly patted his head, then motioned for Héruminyë to pass him the blanket and draped it over his son's sleeping form. 

“Time for us to get some more rest, before we are needed outside, I assume,” he said, standing up. “Would you like to join me in my room?”

Ñolofinwë still had his reservations about doing that, in truth, but the dismay, tinged a flicker of jealousy, with which Curufinwë glared at him filled him with glee. Though he felt a little childish doing it, he directed his own private smirk at younger elf, a fitting counterpoint for Curufinwë's erstwhile cockiness. 

Curufinwë didn't try to mask the hate on his face, but didn't argue with his father's suggestion, not in words. He spun around instead and headed towards his own set of rooms, prompting his surprised wife – it was unheard-of for Curufinwë to turn his back on his father – to go after him. 

Fëanáro led the way to his room without any further remark, and Ñolofinwë followed.

They crossed an ample antechamber, and passed next to a heap of cushions that made up a second bed. The bed itself stood unmade under its canopy of see-through curtains. Fëanáro set about throwing the crumpled sheets on the ground to change them with clean ones, but Ñolofinwë stopped him. 

“Are you sure?”

“My son and daughter have lain there too, haven't they?” Ñolofinwë sharply said. 

“So they did,” Fëanáro said, his voice huskily low, and started undressing. 

The same indignation that had been smouldering inside him in the kitchens, and earlier still, when he had learnt of what Findecáno had done, took hold of Ñolofinwë again. But now the circumstances were different. There were no servants around now, and they didn't need to put up a pretence of harmony. He didn't have to hold back. “Did it gratify you to have them?”

Fëanáro scoffed. “It's not like I did much to them...and I think they were gratified by what they did to me.” He grinned at the surprise that flashed in Ñolofinwë's eyes. “Jealous of your own children, are you?” 

Ñolofinwë froze with his shirt crumpled around his arms, then flung the garment to the ground.

“Why do you let them do it? Is it just a convenient pastime to you?” 

Fëanáro, now completely naked, stretched both arms out, in a dramatic gesture that served to put his body on display.

“The mightiest of the Ñoldor...motherless, fatherless, deprived of all my possessions. I don't feel I should own my very body anymore,” he said, and Ñolofinwë flinched despite everything at the most obvious implication of not owning a body. “With my sons, of course, it's different,” Fëanáro went on, “I always belonged to them, they are the only treasure I haven't lost -” he paused, or his voice faltered, stumbling on a 'yet' that echoed in the room even remaining unsaid, “- and with them, I live.” He lowered his arms, breaking his statue-like stance, and reached behind his head to untie his hair too. “Do you perhaps want to have your share of me, too?”

Ñolofinwë didn't have to think too long. He shoved Fëanáro against the wall, as he had not too long before, and held him there, pressing his forearm against his neck.

Fëanáro shivered – the wall was cold and Ñolofinwë's gaze boded a storm – but licked his lips, inhaling deeply to try to make up for his curtailed air supply. “You should learn from your daughter...she doesn't hesitate, she doesn't need rage as an excuse,” he murmured.

Ñolofinwë dived down and kissed him on the mouth, fiercely enough to bruise his lips, while his forearm pressed even harder against Fëanáro's neck. He felt Fëanáro gasp inside his mouth, and drank the sound like heady liquor. He plunged his tongue inside Fëanáro's mouth, and swirled it around, while Fëanáro began to squirm against him. He relented the pressure only when he pulled back, and was satisfied to see Fëanáro panting, his mouth hanging open and glistening with his own spit, his lower lip blood-red where Ñolofinwë had bit it. 

Ñolofinwë's cock now tented the front of his breeches after he had ground it unthinkingly, deliciously against Fëanáro's stomach. He took it out and spit in his own hand. Fëanáro held his gaze while he applied the moisture to his cockhead, as if daring him to go on. Ñolofinwë's eyes in turn bored into Fëanáro's, unflinching.

He lifted one of Fëanáro's legs, hooking his hand under his knee and around his thigh. He had to bend his own legs a little to make up for the difference in height between them, but as soon as his cockhead was lined up with his ass, he breached him swiftly, urgently. Once inside, he took hold of Fëanáro's other leg too and lifted him, bracing him against the wall. Fëanáro's weight brought him down flush on his cock.

The blunt awareness of that heat engulfing him from tip to base, the way Fëanáro's eyes fluttered closed and the whine that escaped his bruised mouth were gloriously thrilling, but there was something else Ñolofinwë hadn't taken into consideration. Fëanáro was still wet from whatever he had done earlier with Curufinwë, or Maitimo or even Findecáno. The slimy hotness of it coated his cock and Ñolofinwë felt like he had been tricked into partaking of something lewd, something forbidden. But then Fëanáro wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and clenched around him. His own hands reflexively tightened around Fëanáro's thighs. Whatever Fëanáro had done, he couldn't back out now. He began moving, fast and uneven, grunting and moaning. 

His deep-rooted frustration and the fact that it was the first time he had sex in a while brought him to completion quickly enough, but even so Fëanáro came before him, his head rolling forward on his shoulder. 

Ñolofinwë slowly lowered him to the ground, his cock slipping out of him with a loud wet sound. 

Fëanáro still clung to him – Ñolofinwë could feel his heartbeat on his own skin – but when he finally lifted his pleasure-mellowed face again what he said was: “what will you tell your wife, now?” 

Ñolofinwë grabbed him and tossed him face down on the bed, scrambling to get on the mattress too and straddle his thighs. He sat on them, his cock lying over the crack of Fëanáro's ass, and for a while contemplated Fëanáro's back – the deep lines of his muscles; the paler lines of scars he had only been able to glimpse in the main room; red lines where somebody had scratched him, all bare to him now.

It was through his own seed that he slammed into Fëanáro again, holding onto his buttocks and keeping them closed, so that the opening in which his cock slid was particularly tight.

Fëanáro let out a deep groan, but then pillowed his head on his arms and was silent, his breathing settling to a quiet hum that was overridden by Ñolofinwë's hoarse one. Ñolofinwë could see his facial muscles twitching and tightening from time to time, but his eyes were closed and his lips remained shut in a thin line. It was almost like he was intent on pretending that he wasn't being fucked by his hated half-brother. 

Ñolofinwë squeezed his ass harder, and settled into a rhythm that made Fëanáro's whole prone form rock against the bed. His second orgasm crested slowly then crashed through him like a bolt of thunder, and he sank his nails into Fëanáro's skin as he heaved shallow breath after shallow breath.

He crumpled to a sitting position next to his half-brother, leaning back on his arms, his chest still heaving.

Fëanáro rolled over on his side and reopened his eyes, staring directly at him. 

“So -” he mumbled drowsily, “- does it gratify you to have had me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Coimas_ is lembas. The Yavannildi are the ‘maidens of Yavanna’, the only ones who could handle the special corn for the making of lembas, according to a short essay in The Peoples of Middle Earth.


	6. Chapter 6

Ñolofinwë returned Fëanáro's stare, the myriad new possibilities opening up to him peeking into his mind as his breathing settled down. It was clear that Fëanáro didn't really want an answer, and ultimately it didn't even matter if his question was just a taunt: what was done was done, and Ñolofinwë had indeed enjoyed taking his half-brother. He would gladly do it again, and again, too – of that he was quite sure.

Fëanáro slithered into motion after some time, pushing himself towards the head of the bed. He lifted the covers, unravelled the tight tangle into which they had been kicked, and drew them towards himself while he stretched out. His hair fell half over his face as he laid his head down on one of the pillows, but Ñolofinwë thought he glimpsed a smirk on his lips.

“Sweet dreams, brother,” Fëanáro said in a husky whisper. 

Ñolofinwë didn't reply, but lay down next to him, and fell asleep still gazing contemplatively at his half-brother's form.

Sometime during their rest, Curufinwë snuck into the bed, and between Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro, but Ñolofinwë only realised it some time after the heat pooling between them woke him up. At first he merely marvelled at how deep and free of nightmares his sleep had been, and it took him a while to realise that it wasn't Fëanáro's back which was glued to his chest. 

Curufinwë had one arm around his father's waist, and huddled close to him, but more as if he wanted to protect him rather than be protected.

Ñolofinwë scooted back a little and turned on his other side. He still didn't know how to deal with the intimacy between Fëanáro and his sons, but he couldn't ignore it either. Fortunately his thoughts didn't keep him awake for long, and he only stirred again when he heard a woman's voice call his name. 

Roused softly from gentle repose, he looked up to see Írissë sit on the edge of the bed, dressed in her hunting garb, with her heavy, fur-lined mantle draped over her left arm, and her bow and quiver hanging from her shoulder. She smiled broadly, her eyes straying for a moment from her father towards the two Curufinwë still asleep in each other's arms. That sight was – Ñolofinwë couldn't help but remind himself – very familiar indeed to her. 

“We've readied the horses and the supplies,” she said. “When the three of you come down to the stables, we will leave.”

Ñolofinwë nodded. It was better to act speedily, before Fëanáro could change his mind about letting his sons go. 

“We will be there soon,” he mumbled while he sat up and drew Írissë into a hug. “Be careful.”

“Of course. Aunt Lalwen decided to join us too, and Findaráto's brothers are coming with a good number of their attendants,” Írissë said, then her smile took on on a somewhat wistful edge. “I guess it can be a...test, a test to see if the Ñoldor can still, in fact, work together.” She rose with a sigh. “Well, hurry up.”

*

Not too long after Írissë had gone from the room, Fëanáro, Curufinwë and Ñolofinwë were at the gate which led into the back courtyard of the palace and into the stables, appearing for the first time side by side and in seeming accord. Throngs of people were gathered all around the enclosure – regular palace attendants, those who had helped ready the horses and the supplies for the travelling party, and people who were simply distraught by the stagnation and the uncertainty of the upcoming departure and sought the reassurance of the princes.

The herald who preceded Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë introduced them as the joint Lords of the Ñoldor the moment they stepped over the threshold. There was a vivacious murmur from the crowd, which morphed into expectant silence almost immediately. Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë's footsteps echoed together as they crossed the courtyard, distinct on the smooth flagstones and perfectly synchronised. 

Fëanáro's sons stood together next to Tyelcormo's horse, together with Huan, who wagged his tail at Fëanáro's approach, his barking lending a cheerful note to the silence. Halfway across the courtyard Fëanáro veered towards them, his stride picking up speed, whereas Ñolofinwë walked over to Lalwen and Írissë. 

Arafinwë had already said his goodbyes to his sons, and kept instead a watchful eye on both his brothers. 

Fëanáro hugged Tyelcormo first, then Telufinwë and finally Pityafinwë. The four of them stood in a circle, talking to one another in hushed tones for a long while. On the other side of the courtyard, Ñolofinwë did the same with his daughter and sister, and was in his heart both glad and distressed that Fëanáro was dragging the separation on. 

The party left with Tyelcormo, Írissë and Lalwen at the head of the few dozens men and women, slowly riding along the road which winded its way down the side of Túna and towards the closest city gate. 

Fëanáro followed the riders out of the enclosure of the stables, and followed them with his eyes until the darkness had swallowed them, continuously shifting his feet, his hand latched onto one of the iron decorations of the gate, as if barely holding himself back from running after them. Curufinwë quietly but firmly led him back towards the palace gates, where Ñolofinwë awaited, with Arafinwë next to him. Ñolofinwë extended his hand towards Fëanáro, palm-up in a gesture of amity and trust. 

“We will be ready by the time they return,” he said, his voice loud and steady, so that everybody could hear. “I shall see to it that the provisions be doubled by then.”

Fëanáro nodded. “I will take care of the weapons and other equipment.”

They clasped their hands, and squeezed tight for a moment, the two-fold significance of the warmth they shared fully evident to them alone. 

The crowd seemed to feel its ripples all the same, and as they were about to go inside, a small group of people took courage and came forward to address them. 

*

Even without Lalwen at his side, the atmosphere inside the palace seemed to Ñolofinwë less oppressive when he finally walked the dark corridors again, though nothing had changed other than his relationship with his half-brother. The equivalent to half a day had passed. He had patiently seen to whoever needed help or reassurance together with Arafinwë, and settled a dispute which had arisen between neighbours on the apportioning of the corn which had been salvaged from a field they shared. 

Fëanáro, together Curufinwë, had headed to the forges instead, where Tyelperinquar was back to his near-incessant work for the making of weaponry for the whole host.

Ñolofinwë retraced his steps to Fëanáro's apartment – Héruminyë was in the foyer, but let him through without question, acknowledging him with a quick nod of her head – and to his bedchamber. He crossed the vast rooms without hurry, taking in the subtler details in the decorations, and even from afar could tell, by sound and smell, that Fëanáro and his sons were having sex.

All that he could see when he reached the antechamber was Maitimo's broad back and Carnistir lying strewn across somebody else's legs. At least, he could be sure that Findecáno wasn't there: Anairë had called him to her, as soon as word had gotten to her of Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro's ostensible reconciliation. Ñolofinwë was selfishly relieved that Findecáno would bear the brunt of her questioning, but he would talk to Anairë once he was surer of his new position. He would also find a suitable reward for Findecáno's longanimity and devotion.

Ñolofinwë resolutely stepped into the bedchamber and towards the left side of the bed, skirting the heap of cushions still amassed on the floor there. The tangle of bodies on the mattress revealed itself to him from that angle. Fëanáro lay on his side, his head pillowed on Macalaurë's belly. His left leg was up in the air, and Maitimo held it in a secure grip while he thrust inside him – at his leisure, pulling back slowly and just as lazily pushing back in. Fëanáro mouthed Macalaurë's cock with the same laziness, eyes half-lidded, while Macalaurë's hands lavished touches to his shoulders and chest. Carnistir lay sideways, reaching over Macalaurë's legs to suck their father. 

Behind Fëanáro, sitting crossed legged on the mattress, Curufinwë strummed a droning, easeful tune on a colourful lute with a small body and a very large, long neck, one the many products of Macalaurë's musical inventive.

All were naked. All moved together, in such perfect accord that they might have been one body and one soul.

Ñolofinwë stood silent. His mind seemed to hush, leaving all say to his eyes. Macalaurë was the only one to note his presence at first, but didn't acknowledge it, and he could watch them freely until Curufinwë lifted his head from his instrument and saw him too. 

“Leave,” he abruptly said, his face hardening, “your presence here isn't required at the moment.”

Fëanáro opened his eyes, and fixed them on him, but he didn't stop what he was doing, flicking his tongue against the tip of Macalaurë's cock.

Ñolofinwë told himself he did mean to look away, he just couldn't. “I am a guest of your father, and his co-ruler.”

Fëanáro didn't say anything. He closed his eyes again and tilted his head to drop a line of kisses along Macalaurë's shaft. It could have been a way to goad him, and it could just as well have been a perfectly normal thing for Fëanáro to do in bed. Ñolofinwë crossed the room to the other side of the bed, and began taking his clothes off. At that, Curufinwë's eyes filled with indignation. He unfolded his legs, gingerly set the lute on the nightstand – but his gestures were nervous – and stood up. 

Ñolofinwë had already taken his shirt off and was calmly draping it over the back of the armchair set next to a low table, affecting a show of supreme calmness which further riled the younger elf.

“You have no place here,” Curufinwë said, his voice a far cry from his well-honed mellifluous tone. 

Ñolofinwë threw him a cursory glance, and began undoing his belt. “I woke up next to you, a mere few hours ago.”

“That does not signify. You have not earned a place here, any more than your sister has earned a place here by fucking my wife.”

Ñolofinwë couldn't help furrowing his brow at the allusion to Lalwen, though he didn't let it deter him. He started unlacing his pants too, but only managed to work through the first knot before Curufinwë grasped his left wrist, in an attempt to stop him. Ñolofinwë easily broke free of his hold. 

“Do not overstep yourself. I am your elder _and_ your superior,” he reminded him.

“You are _nothing_ to me,” Curufinwë spat back. 

“Well, I might be something to your father,” Ñolofinwë ribbed, inclining his head towards the bed, but still no confirmation or denial came from the people on it. 

Fëanáro kept placidly suckling on Macalaurë's cockhead now and then. Maitimo, who at other times might have stepped in to defuse a possibly dangerous situation, kept thrusting inside his father, willingly oblivious to everything else. Carnistir was thoroughly engrossed in licking his father's shaft from every possible angle. Only Macalaurë seemed to take an interest in the argument, though if he had anything to say he kept it to himself. The glimmer in his eyes showed rather that he considered their bickering a pleasant diversion.

The lack of support from his father and brothers flustered Curufinwë somewhat, but he decided to take it as leeway for him to insist in his attempt to get rid of Ñolofinwë. “My father has us, he doesn't need the company of one who would usurp him.”

Ñolofinwë snorted not wholly without amusement, the left corner of his lips pulling up in a brazen smirk. “He didn't mind taking my seed last time I was here...and twice at that.”

He had hardly spoked those words that Curufinwë leapt towards him and slapped him, putting the whole strength of his working arm into the blow, the sum of all the force he employed to hammer on metal. The slap turned Ñolofinwë's head, and caused him to take a step back, but he managed not to stumble, and stood his ground.

“Get out,” Curufinwë ordered anew, pointing towards the door with the same hand that had just delivered the blow.

Ñolofinwë inhaled sharply through his nose, fury – and something far subtler tha fury – straining his body to be let loose. Nobody had ever dared hit him like that. There was no reaction from the bed, but Ñolofinwë doubted it was because of indifference, rather he suspected that everything happened in fact much more quickly than his surprise made it seem. 

If he had hit Curufinwë back, Curufinwë would have – in all likelihood – just kept fighting. Instead Ñolofinwë grasped his unbound hair and yanked viciously on it. Curufinwë cried out in pain, his hands rising to claw at Ñolofinwë's arms, but Ñolofinwë gritted his teeth and held on. He quickly dragged Curufinwë back to the bed, then let go of his hair and tossed him face-down on it. Curufinwë landed heavily, nearly hitting his father's side with his forehead, but catching himself with his arms at the last moment.

Fëanáro was finally spurred into action by that. He turned to lie on his back, leaving the cocoon of Macalaurë's arms, and his hands immediately went to Curufinwë's head, which he stroked gently.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Curufinwë nodded, though the movement was barely noticeable. “Dad –,” he began, but the bed creaked loudly. Fëanáro looked up to see Ñolofinwë kneel behind Curufinwë, the front of his pants open and his cock hanging out, semi-hard. 

“I always took your son to be more cool-headed than you, but it appears he too can be brash, if he does lose his temper,” he said.

“I do not extend my goodwill to those who do not deserve it,” Curufinwë retorted, and made to curl up next to his father.

Ñolofinwë stopped him, grasping his sides. “Then I will just take it from your body.”

“Go on, it will have no meaning.”

“So you say.” Ñolofinwë slid his hands to Curufinwë's buttocks, squeezed them and pulled them open. He chuckled to himself, seeing as his hole was wet and slightly gaping. He could only wonder whether it had been his father or his brothers or all of them who had opened him up and fucked him and left him so enticingly ready. Still holding onto his ass with one hand, he moistened the tip of his own cock with his spit, just as he had done before fucking Fëanáro.

“Dad –” Curufinwë moaned again, stretching his neck to kiss his father on the lips. Fëanáro met him halfway, lifting his head from the pillow, like the reflection in a mirror coming forward to meet its owner. Ñolofinwë added more spit to his cock, visions of father and son fucking each other arousing him even more.

Curufinwë groaned into the kiss, but his voice dropped to a growl when Ñolofinwë slid his now fully erect and moist cock up and down his asscrack, trailing it over his still very sensitive entrance. 

“Let's see if you take after your father in this too,” he taunted and pulled back, putting the tip of his cock to Curufinwë's opening, feeling it twitch against his slit. He slipped in with very little effort, sucked in by supple muscles and warm moisture. He didn't need to stop, didn't need to be careful, so he just pressed in.

“Self-righteous pig,” Curufinwë hissed as he buried himself deep inside him, “perverted...usurper.” 

Ñolofinwë withdrew and forcefully re-entered, and repeated the motion so many times that shudders and contractions which gave the lie to Curufinwë's protests overtook the younger elf's body. Even so, Curufinwë didn't stop muttering insults and jibes. Ñolofinwë grabbed his hair again and again tugged hard on it, forcing Curufinwë to bend his neck backwards in order to shut him up, but Fëanáro promptly levelled him a menacing glare, and he relented.

Curufinwë's head fell forward again, and he tried to kiss his father even with Ñolofinwë still pulling on his hair. “Dad, you will always be the only King,” he half-moaned half-wailed as Ñolofinwë pounded him with little regard for his comfort and, failing to reach his father's lips, lowered his face to his shoulders. 

Fëanáro wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him while his body was tossed forward with Ñolofinwë's every thrust. 

Their fucking went on in almost complete silence, save for panting and groaning – but Ñolofinwë tried to keep his own as quiet as possible – which culminated in Fëanáro's keening moan as Maitimo abruptly withdrew from him and slammed back in, while Carnistir swallowed his cock to the root at the same time. 

Fëanáro was rocked back into the bed, bringing Curufinwë with him. Maitimo did the same again, and again; Carnistir seemed to have forgotten the need to breathe. At last, Maitimo closed his eyes, his face turned upwards in an expression of utter, maddening bliss, wave after wave of pleasure hitting him for as long as it took him to spill his seed inside his father.


End file.
